


Rag Man

by Mithen



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Immortality, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Clark Kent and a homeless drifter's lives intersect briefly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rag Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [碎布男](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256386) by [Lynx219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx219/pseuds/Lynx219)



> In _Batman &amp; Robin #10_, Damian wonders if perhaps Bruce has returned to the present by living through the thousands of years in the interim.  I don't think that will end up being canon, but...

  
Stars shattered in front of Clark's eyes as the rock glanced off his temple. But he held his ground, his arms stretched wide, standing between the gang of boys and their prey.

"Jeez, Kent," said Jed Green, looking somewhat shocked at this turn of events. "Didn't mean to hit you, we was just..."

There was something warm trickling down the side of Clark's face. "Just what, Jed?" His heart was pounding with a mix of fear and anger. "Just tormenting some old man who never did anything to you? Thought no one would believe the crazy old Rag Man, or complain?" Sheepish sidewise looks from the little mob. Jed shot glances from his beady eyes to the rest of his crowd as they wavered and Clark pressed his advantage. "Well, you think my Pa will listen to me? You think he'll talk to your Pa?" Someone in the back started to slink off; Clark didn't take his eyes off Jed. "Get out of here," he sneered, putting as much contempt as he could muster into his voice. "Go on, bully someone else."

Jed looked down and Clark knew he'd won. For now. There'd be a price to pay later, but right now...Jed muttered something about snotty brats who didn't know what was good for them, then strutted off as if he hadn't just been stared down by a ten-year-old kid.

Clark took a long, slow breath, trying to keep his legs from shaking. He'd almost gotten himself really hurt there. His temple stung; he reached up to touch it and his hand came away red. Startled, he looked down and realized there was blood dripping on his shirt. "Oh man," he muttered. "My Sunday shirt, Ma is gonna kill me."

"You're hurt," came a deep voice behind him, and Clark spun around.

In the tension of the confrontation he'd almost forgotten the person he'd come charging in to protect; now he found himself face to face with the Rag Man.

The Rag Man was old--maybe thirty or so, it was hard to tell with all that beard. His hair was matted and filthy, and his clothes were a mass of tears and patches. "You're hurt," he said again, and Clark realized he'd never heard the Rag Man speak. He was a drifter, a homeless guy who'd been hanging out in Smallville for a year or so now, never causing any trouble, just sleeping on park benches or sometimes in the church when it was cold.

He was reaching out to touch Clark's temple, and Clark flinched away involuntarily. Instead of looking angry, the Rag Man looked suddenly very sad. "You shouldn't be hurt," he said.

"Well, I wasn't just going to let them throw rocks at you," Clark retorted.

"That isn't...what I meant," the Rag Man said, but he looked confused. "I...don't know what I meant." He looked after the retreating boys. "I was afraid," he said, and Clark's heart suddenly went out to him at the simplicity of the statement. He seemed a nice enough man, just not quite all there.

"Well, I don't blame you," he said. "Jed's a big bully."

The Rag Man was still looking after them. "I was afraid I might hurt them," he said very softly. "People are...so easy to hurt." He turned his gaze back to Clark, who was blinking at him in confusion. "You're bleeding," he said, his face creased in distress. "You should go home. Someone needs to take care of you."

"You're hurt too," Clark said, realizing it for the first time; under the matted hair a trickle of blood was winding down his temple. Clark had assumed the first stone had missed because the Rag Man hadn't even flinched. "Come home with me," he said suddenly. "Ma will get you bandaged and get you a hot meal."

"Home?" The man's eyes turned distant. "I would like to go home," he whispered.

Clark touched his arm and he obediently fell into step beside him. Clark could see dirty toes peeking out from the worn leather of his shoes.

"It's not far," Clark said reassuringly.

"Farther than it seems," the Rag Man muttered, but he didn't seem to be talking about the Kent farm.

**: : :**

Clark had expected that the Rag Man would dig into Martha Kent's stew like a starving wolf, but he was once again surprised. Although he was clearly hungry, the man ate carefully and politely after placing his napkin on his lap. "Thank you very much, ma'am," he said as he finished the bowl. "That was delicious."

"You're welcome, Mister...." Martha let the sentence trail off inquiringly.

The Rag Man shook his head. "I don't have a name," he said. "Or I have a lot of them. I can't keep them all in my head at once, they slip out sometimes and I lose them for years."

"I'm...sorry to hear that," Martha said, taking it in stride as she ladled more stew.

Jonathan Kent watched the Rag Man carefully as he ate the stew and sipped a glass of milk. "Are you from Smallville, Mister?"

The Rag Man patted his mouth with his napkin in an oddly precise movement, incongruous with his wildly-bearded and shaggy appearance. "No, sir. I'm from Gotham." There was a gleam of pride in his voice, and an odd possessiveness.

"You're a long way from home," Martha said.

"I am. I left a few years ago. I couldn't stay. I--" The man blinked and his eyes lost focus for a moment. "I couldn't risk being there when the shadows fell. They have to fall, you know." There was a vast sadness in his hooded eyes. "I can't stop those shadows, not now. I know that. So I had to leave. And...I was searching for something. I knew it was west, in the heart of the land. That's all I knew. So I went west." He shrugged, a rustle of tattered cloth. "And here I am." He nodded slowly. "This is a very fine farm, sir."

Jonathan made a pleased throat-clearing sound. "I'm proud of it." He eyed the Rag Man. "If you wanted to stay and help out for a while, we could use the extra hands. Don't have much in the way of lodging, but there's a bedroll in the stables, they'll be plenty warm until harvest."

The Rag Man blinked and seemed taken aback. "You don't know me at all, sir."

"I'm a pretty good judge of character. You talk like an educated man. And you have good eyes."

For a moment, those eyes were filled with a yearning that startled Clark. "I wish I could," the Rag Man said. "I'd like to stay here. But it's nearly time to be going back, I can feel it in my bones. Thank you for the offer, sir."

The silence that followed was rather mournful, and Martha broke it to ask Clark about his homework for school tomorrow. Clark talked about his math homework and how he didn't like long division, and how Pete was planning on bringing a mouse to class for show, and Lana didn't think that was a good idea and Clark was afraid the mouse might get away and get hurt. The Rag Man watched the conversation carefully, as if he was savoring it as much as the stew.

Ma and Pa wouldn't let their guest help with the dishes; he was sitting on the porch when Clark brought him a glass of lemonade. He was watching the horizon to the west, where a mass of storm clouds was gathering far off, sweeping slowly toward Smallville. "Thank you," he said, and drained the glass in one gulp, his eyes closed, relishing it. A long sigh shook him when he was done. "Can't stay anywhere long," he said. "I can see the future, you see. There's a bird in my heart that sings of spring, even though his feathers are stained with blood. In my memories of the future I chase a black cat across endless rooftops. Her claws are of diamond and I swing on moonbeams to keep up and we never fall. I see an old, cruel god with crooked eyes. I fight him and we fall together. I feel triumph and satisfaction and pain, and my last thought of all is, _I will never see him again._"

"The god?" Clark asked without thinking, drawn into the web of words.

"No," said the Rag Man, and said nothing more for a while. Then he pulled himself out of the chair with an abrupt, restless motion, as if it pained him to move but he couldn't stay still any longer. "Time to head home," he said.

"Right now?" Clark glanced to the west, at the boiling clouds. The wind was picking up already, and the air was full of electrical tension. "But...there's a storm coming."

There was a sudden gleam of bright teeth in the tangled beard as the Rag Man smiled. "I know," he said. "It's going to be _magnificent._" For just a moment he looked almost feral, primal, like a force of nature himself. It should have been frightening or threatening, but instead Clark felt a sudden thrill of excitement. "I knew it," the Rag Man went on. "When I saw you there, putting yourself between me and harm--I knew the future was almost here." He squared his shoulders. "I have to be in Gotham, to find my names again."

"Wait!" Clark cried as the man took a step forward and he saw the soles of his shoes flap, saw skin flash. "Wait." He darted indoors and came back carrying a pair of Jonathan Kent's old work boots; worn and broken-in, they were still more sturdy than what the Rag Man was wearing. "Pa said you could have these. And here." He pressed a small cloth bundle into the man's hands. "Some of Ma's biscuits."

The Rag Man slowly pulled off his shoes and slipped his feet into the boots. He took a couple of experimental stamps in them. "Good boots. Strong. They'll get me home," he said. He looked at Clark for a long moment, the wind blowing his grizzled hair. "Thank you, Clark," he said softly.

Then he set off east, his strides long and sure.

**: : :**

Midnight. Thunder shakes the Kent farmhouse, a long low rumble like an oncoming train. Rain pelts the windows. Another brilliant flash followed by a whipcrack, a gunshot. The storm has broken.

Clark Kent is usually afraid of thunderstorms, but tonight he lies in bed and feels electricity pulsing in the air, raw power and potential crackling, and he smiles without knowing why. By the next week the details of his conversation with the Rag Man will be slipping from his childish memory; within a month he will no longer be able to easily recall the man's face or voice. But tonight he feels the power of the storm and revels in it.

Far away, Bruce Wayne is walking east through the storm, his tireless legs eating up the miles, heading toward Gotham.

Heading toward the future.


End file.
